was asking me to share the latter. But I was exceedingly nice, a trifle diffident, appropriately reverential. Together we walked through the mud and slush.
Now, there is something peculiarly intimate in sharing an umbrella.
It is apt to put one on the same footing as brushing a man's coat for him—a little daring, naive.
I longed to know why he sat alone, why he carried the bag, what he did all day. But he himself volunteered some information.
'I fear,' he said, 'that my luggage will be damp. I invariably carry it with me in this bag—one requires so little—for servants are untrustworthy.'
'A wise idea,' I answered. And then: 'Why have you denied us the pleasure—'
'I sit alone that I may eat more,' said the Baron, peering into the dusk; 'my stomach requires a great deal of food. I order double portions, and eat them in peace.'
Which sounded finely Baronial.
'And what do you do all day?'
'I imbibe nourishment in my room,' he replied, in a voice that closed the conversation and almost repented of the umbrella.
When we arrived at the pension there was very nearly an open riot.
I ran half way up the stairs, and thanked the Baron audibly from the landing.
He distinctly replied: 'Not at all!'
It was very friendly of the Herr Oberlehrer to have sent me a bouquet that evening, and the Frau Oberregierungsrat asked me for my pattern of a baby's bonnet!
Next day the Baron was gone.
Sic transit gloria German mundi.
3. THE SISTER OF THE BARONESS.
'There are two new guests arriving this afternoon,' said the manager of the pension, placing a chair for me at the breakfast table. 'I have only received the letter acquainting me with the fact this morning. The Baroness von Gall is sending her little daughter—the poor child is dumb—to make the 'cure.' She is to stay with us a month, and then the Baroness herself is coming.'
'Baroness von Gall,' cried the Frau Doktor, coming into the room and positively scenting the name. 'Coming here? There was a picture of her only last week in 'Sport and Salon.' She is a friend of the court: I have heard that the Kaiserin says 'du' to her. But this is delightful! I shall take my doctor's advice and spend an extra six weeks here. There is nothing like young society.'
'But the child is dumb,' ventured the manager apologetically.
'Bah! What does that matter? Afflicted children have such pretty ways.'
Each guest who came into the breakfast-room was bombarded with the wonderful news. 'The Baroness von Gall is sending her little daughter here; the Baroness herself is coming in a month's time.' Coffee and rolls took on the nature of an orgy. We positively scintillated. Anecdotes of the High Born were poured out, sweetened and sipped: we gorged on scandals of High Birth generously buttered.
'They are to have the room next to yours,' said the manager, addressing me. 'I was wondering if you would permit me to take down the portrait of the Kaiserin Elizabeth from above your bed to hang over their sofa.'
'Yes, indeed, something homelike'—the Frau Oberregierungsrat patted my hand—'and of no possible significance to you.'
I felt a little crushed. Not at the prospect of losing that vision of diamonds and blue velvet bust, but at the tone—placing me outside the pale—branding me as a foreigner.
We dissipated the day in valid speculations. Decided it was too warm to walk in the afternoon, so lay down on our beds, mustering in great force for afternoon coffee. And a carriage drew up at the door. A tall young girl got out, leading a child by the hand. They entered the hall, were greeted and shown to their room. Ten minutes later she came down with the child to sign the visitors' book. She wore a black, closely fitting dress, touched at throat and wrists with white frilling. Her brown hair, braided, was tied with a black bow—unusually pale, with a small mole on her left cheek.
'I am the Baroness von Gall's sister,' she said, trying the pen on a piece of blotting-paper, and smiling at us deprecatingly. Even for the most jaded of us life holds its thrilling moments. Two Baronesses in two months! The manager immediately left the room to find a new nib.
To my plebeian eyes that afflicted child was singularly unattractive. She had the air of having been perpetually washed with a blue bag, and hair like grey wool—dressed, too, in a pinafore so stiffly starched that she could only peer at us over the frill of it—a social barrier of a pinafore—and perhaps it was too much to expect a noble aunt to attend to the menial consideration of her niece's ears. But a dumb niece with unwashed ears struck me as a most depressing object.
They were given places at the head of the table. For a moment we all looked at one another with an eena- deena-dina-do expression. Then the Frau Oberregierungsrat:
'I hope you are not tired after your journey.'
'No,' said the sister of the Baroness, smiling into her cup.
'I hope the dear child is not tired,' said the Frau Doktor.
'Not at all.'
'I expect, I hope you will sleep well to-night,' the Herr Oberlehrer said reverently.
'Yes.'
The poet from Munich never took his eyes off the pair. He allowed his tie to absorb most of his coffee while he
